Speak of Hallowmas Past
Every Hallowmas new confessions join the old – Londoners whisper their long secret sins. New confessions thrill, driving old confessions from minds. But Slivvy remembers. He will discuss them with you. [x]
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A small confession written with tiny letters, on a paper torn from a notebook. It’s slightly charred on the edge. An excerpt of guile.
I ate my friend’s fruit tart. I was very hungry after work and I didn’t know it was theirs. They weren't happy, obviously. Hasn’t found out it was me, but I fear to think what they will do if they… They're a very particular one when it comes to food, especially when it contains Surface ingredients, and I ate their fruit tart!
A confession on a piece of wrapping paper. The writing begins with the consistency of a trained hand, but as it goes on, it quivers and quivers. An excerpt of impropriety.
I suppose it’s no secret that I indulge in a certain appetite, but I was never ashamed of this affliction until I almost consumed my dearest. He lied there beside me. Open. Vulnerable. Red. Red. So red. I was so close. So hungry. So close…… Now I do everything I can to keep my appetite in control, sated without hurting anyone dear, but this memory remains.
A lazy and loose handwriting, you can almost see the confessor’s reluctance from it alone. An excerpt of whimsy.
It’s Hallowmas again. The season always urges me to write a confession or two, but frankly, sometimes I can’t even remember what I did the day before. I’m never able to get myself fully immersed in the holiday spirit because of this. It’s a little sad.
A confession written on on the back of a torn music score. An excerpt of guile.
It was a few months ago. Some lunatic composer wanted to perform a Correspondence concert at the Hall. Again. And… well, I just happened to be backstage before everyone else, and I left right away. I didn’t mean to drop the glass contrabass! I swear! But it felt good - liberating! Nobody needs to listen to that godawful so-called music, right? It was the right thing to do!
This confession was meant to be disposed of before it was stolen from the reveller's hand. It remains here still. An excerpt of violence.
A barely concealed crime from long ago; the confessor killed a family in a heated argument, against his own conscience, and exchanged his already scarce freedom for a caged life in order to remain by the side of his beloved. (He also said it's better that I don't know what goes on in his family.)
(Don't forget: BURN this confession.)
(Don't forget: BURN this confession.)
An anonymous confession printed in a newspaper of avian association. Was it written with a purpose in mind? An excerpt of pride.
The board taught me: love is a fragile thing; it struggles to survive the winter. Yet I still yearn for it, I cannot look away from it, and if I am a fool for this, I am glad to have someone equally foolish by my side. When this confession comes to light, we would have met among the statues and pagodas to swear an oath.
Slithery brush strokes on a torn piece of thick paper. An excerpt of curiosity.
I could apologise, but I don't understand why he was so cross. It was something anyone could learn if they knew the ways of mirrors.
A crumpled confession typed with fading ink. An excerpt of guile.
My husband loves his child dearly. I told myself I will learn to love them too. I should, to be with him. But whenever he takes me to that dark, webbed room, I still find myself counting the seconds we spend in there. Better than counting the legs. Or the eyes. Or the clicking and chittering. But I shouldn't be looking away from them. I shouldn't. That child must have noticed this too.